Unguarded Moments
by webaholic
Summary: Kurt Wagner/Nightcrawler finally meets a woman immune to his charms. But will she remain that way? Humor-filled adventures lead to a unique relationship with tomboy OC who becomes his best friend. AU, elements of canon comics, animated series, movieverse.
1. Surprise Visit

In the frenzy of a fantastic fight, Kurt Wagner's thoughts were interrupted by those of Professor Xavier. These urgent messages were still an unfamiliar and unsettling phenomenon to the newest member of the X-men, but it was understood that when the summons came, they were to be obeyed immediately and without question.

_Nightcrawler, _came the intuited instructions_, we must not leave the civilians on campus unguarded. Scott says you are to look after the cook._

_Jawohl, Herr Professor. I will find a place of safety for her. _

He grabbed a poker from beside the fireplace and menaced his opponent, a fellow with large ears and an unbelievably gaudy uniform made of various shades of magenta and chartreuse satin, an ensemble which only made the bandolier and artillery seem more ridiculous. A quick thrust of the iron implement left the man screeching in pain, dropping the gun to hold his bloodied wrist and shout imprecations at the German mutant. The weapon thudded to the marble floor, skidding a short way in an awkward dance. Kurt's tail lashed out, grabbed the gun, and heaved it toward Beast; the other blue X-man caught it easily and broke it in pieces with one foot while his hands pummelled an opponent.

_Do we know where she is located? _Kurt asked.

The Professor patched Scott's voice directly into Kurt's mind to inform him that the non-mutant cook was probably in the guest cottage down the hill from the mansion. _Naturally she'll be unaware of this fracas, _he added_, since the attack was sprung so suddenly._

_Where should I take her? _Though no stranger to battle, Wagner was nervous about this particular assignment, especially since he had only been on the Institute campus for a week and a half at this point in time. The damsel in question had shown no fear of his odd appearance, but how would she react to being rescued in such an abrupt manner? One must take care to start off on the right foot – even when one's feet were prehensile and covered in blue fur.

_Use your best judgment,_ Scott answered. _Now hurry!_

* * *

A day going as badly as this could only get better. Elise tried to hold on to that thought as she surveyed the mess in the breakfast nook of the cottage in which she lived on the grounds of the Xavier Institute For A Better Tomorrow.

Inviting several of the X-People to watch the entire run of _Star Wars_ DVDs seemed like a good idea to stave off isolation or boredom or restlessness among the group. But the concept seemed less brilliant mid-morning in view of scorch marks on the walls, ranch dip curdling in the trophy won years ago at an archery tournament, and several of her tools scattered about. God had made her an introvert for a reason, she reflected.

Some idiot must have invaded the toy chest which sat in the tool room diagonally across the hallway; her cherished brass-handled Mexican bullwhip, found stuck between the couch cushions, now nestled safely in the side pocket of her overalls. The dart board in the living room was bereft of knives; probably take hours of sour surprises to track those down. Fortunately nobody had been audacious enough to rummage in her bedroom, so the shin sheaths had remained undesecrated; they were strapped over her wool-blend socks at the moment, awaiting the discovery of the knives whose handles she had carved.

There was one – she let loose a disgusted sigh – stuck in the aspidistra planter. The nerve. Thank goodness a quick polish restored its glory. The presence of it tucked into her left leg scabbard was comforting; a place for everything and everything in its place.

And what was this? For pity's sake, what bimbo had dragged her nail gun into the kitchen? The magazine was full; thank goodness there would be no nails stuck in odd places. And the gauge showed it to be full of propane, which suggested they must have gotten distracted before using it to test each other's powers. The more hands she had free to gather stuff in one load, the quicker would go the cleanup, so she pulled a Spider-man bandana from her back pocket and, although the Hilti was almost too heavy, tied it to the hammer loop by her thigh.

She extricated another knife from the remains of a cheese ball on the butcher block kitchen island, and wiped it on a washcloth. Her other hand grabbed a paper place mat and held it under the edge of the tabletop as the knife-wielding forearm scraped some corn chip fragments onto the place mat. She tossed the detritus into the compost bucket, securing the lid with her elbow, then trotted across the small space back to the breakfast nook intending to round up a couple more tools and ferry them to the room designated for working on various projects. Heaven only knew what she'd find in there, but anyone who had so much as breathed on her model trains or done something disgusting to the massage table, would get the low-down on the wrath of one 5'7" sapiens. She might lack an x-gene, but 150 well-honed pounds of angry Elise was a force not quickly forgotten. She shook her head, mousy hair barely budging from its tight bun.

A noise startled her. It resembled a firecracker, but due to the muffled nature of the sound, she guessed it came from right outside the bay window in the front room. Whoever it was, she was _not _at home. The sound of the door handle jiggling was followed by another loud clap. She hadn't served egg salad … what could cause the scent invading her nostrils? From the foyer, a curl of violet, sulfur-scented smoke snaked around the corner of the wall separating den and kitchen.

"Fraulein Stringfellow?" The new guy – she'd think of the name in a sec. Wagner, like the Valkyrie music. He sprinted around the wall and covered the remaining space in two bouncy leaps, then put his arms around her waist, and with a lightning smile said, "Entschuldigen Sie, bitte."

The world turned to confetti in a wind tunnel.

She looked down, a little woozy, to see grass instead of delft design flooring. _Toto, I've a feeling we're not in my quarters anymore. _They were in the middle of the lawn which sloped between the mansion and her bungalow. Her pleasant abductor gave an apologetic smile and – BAMF! – again the spinning, tingling sensation accompanied by hot fumes.

Solid ground. She straightened her shoulders and wavered a bit, then planted her feet firmly and glared at those golden eyes.

He released her and padded back, but only a couple of steps away, his tail rippling wildly behind him as if in response to an unheard gale.

After a couple blinks of her hazel eyes the room was still there. A crucifix and an icon of Our Lady Of Perpetual Help stood on an antique dresser; at various places on the floor, posters of swashbuckler movies leaned against the wall. Must be his digs.

He was babbling in German, but in hushed tones, which seemed odd.

"Slow down," she said, raising her hands to gesture – and banged one on the nail gun which hung like a peacemaker at her side. Sheesh. "Tell me exactly what we are doing in your bedroom, and this better be good or you might have to make your next Confession without benefit of teeth." A waggle of the knife reinforced the sincerity of the threat.

The blue man drew a large, long, somewhat shaky breath, released it slowly, and said, "I beg pardon for the swiftness of our departure, but I was afraid to leave you down there, unprotected and alone. You have no special powers, das ist korrekt?"

"Right. But what has you in such a tizzy?"

His brow furrowed as he mouthed the word "tizzy" a couple of times, shook his dark head and shrugged. "The Institute has been overtaken by a group of dangerous fellows who seem to have a grudge against the good Professor, and brought many weapons to even the score. It was necessary to 'port you quickly, before the enemies knew there was a vulnerable human around."

She allowed that line to slide, for the moment. "Why did we end up in your bedroom? This the first place you think of taking a strange woman?"

"You do not seem so strange." At her grin, he seemed to relax a bit. "I am learning my way around this great mansion." He gestured with his tri-fingered hands. "Here is the place most familiar to me. Now we must think of a secure spot to keep you away from the evil designs of the intruders."

"Dude, not to complain, but you're gonna wear yourself out with all this disappearing stuff, and I'm not feeling 100% myself."

"I am quite sorry. I thought it best to take the journey in two smaller leaps. I realize that for a passenger, the experience of teleportation can be quite nauseating, even to the point of exhaustion."

"No, I don't feel sick to my stomach. A little disoriented at first, but I have my sea legs now."

He favored her with one of his warm smiles, and she thought she'd like to become better acquainted with the immigrant. Preferably some time when they were not being chased by bad guys armed to the teeth. He had already come out with a few intriguing tales while munching on samples in the Institute kitchen as she cooked, and that smile, rare at first but more common the last few days, made her think he might be a good addition to her and Logan's poker nights.

But for the moment, survival was uppermost in her mind.

Footfalls pounded on the stairs and came down the hallway closer to his rooms.

"We could go to the Danger Room," she suggested.

"That does not sound safe." His eyes were alight with growing desperation; she knew that look from seeing it on the faces of the other mutants during some rough times here at Xavier's.

"Or there are a few hidden areas in the tunnels below. D'you know how to get there?"

He hung his head slightly. "I … I do not think I am familiar enough with that system. Could you be my guide?"

"Sure's shootin' pardner. First we head to the elevator by Rogue's room."

"Rogue." A wan smile this time. "She is …?"

"You know the pretty Southern chick with the white streak who always wears the gloves? Anna's her name, but they all call her Rogue."

"Ja, ja, I am good with learning the names and faces, but not so quick to memorize the areas."

"Third door on the left if we go west -- toward the gardens -- on this floor. Let's roll."

She felt like a dodo, with that knife still clutched in her hand and the nail gun's ponderous weight tugging at her overalls, but darned if she were gonna leave them in his room and have to replace yet more tools due to some crazy invasion. Maybe this time they'd be lucky enough that none of the mansion would get blown up ... or burned ... or transported into another dimension ... or painted with their own blood. One could always hope.

The sound of wood splintering announced the fact that the door to the suite had burst open. So much for their escape route.

She expected to see panic, but Wagner drew himself up, a grin of pure mischief on his face.

"Bitte, hide here until I indicate it is safe to come out," and he shoved her, with a distinct lack of ceremony or decorum, into his closet.

[To Be Continued ... ]


	2. Don't Mess With The Hired Help

_Well, finedy-dandy_, Elise thought. The doors were louvered, so she could peek out where the action was. After tucking her knife in the proper sheath, she wriggled her fingers between the short slats, coaxing them open. Much better. A more panoramic view, if interrupted by thin wooden stripes and partly blocked by her would-be rescuer. But she had no business hiding in a man's bedroom, even a seemingly sweet fellow like the new guy.

That rascal! He was holding the door closed, tail wrapped about the round white porcelain handles. What nerve, and how did he know she'd try to pounce out? Most women would stay put and cower.

She didn't plan on remaining tucked away very long. For one thing, she'd landed on her bum, and the bullwhip was digging into her hip. Besides, it was impossible to be useful in the enclosed space. Scooting closer to the back wall of her hidey-hole, she encountered a hard object against her arm. Further inspection revealed something metallic – and ornate, judging by the delicate protuberances as she slid her fingertips across it. Any man who shoved her into his bedroom closet shouldn't take her to task for giving in to a little honest curiosity. What the heck? She had nothing better to do, so grasped whatever leaned against the far corner and pulled.

A sword! What kinda guy did they invite to work here?

At last Wagner moved away from the doors, catapulting himself to the ceiling to skitter across it; he slithered over the lintel, and in a moment, Elise heard a choking cry, swiftly cut off, before he leaned in, piggybacked on a stumbling intruder. As the duo returned in reverse to the other room, Nightcrawler slammed the bedroom door shut with his right hand while the left continued to push upwards on the chin of his involuntary mount.

Something else was pressing against her rump; she grabbed the cool metallic cylinder and brought it to her lap for observation. A flashlight: perfect! The controls were exactly where expected; it was one of hers, borrowed but never returned by the former occupant of this room.

Trapped in her shelter as it were, she surveyed the environment. Not many clothes in the way; he had, what, three? of something dark with ... red in the middle... kinda like leotards, hanging not by the pointy shoulders but draped in half over sturdy wooden hangers. Oh, uniforms. Better than Wolverine's ridiculous getup -- not that she'd ever say that to Logan's face, masked or otherwise. A few shirts featuring busy patterns and nifty buttons, a black woolen duster, and a couple of hoodie jackets. But no shoes. Odd. His feet were different, so maybe he only wore custom footwear like the white boots of the uniform. Or, like Benjy Grimm and Henry "Bones" McCoy, didn't need any?

He did that smelly pop-goes-the-weasel thing again, looked around the room, and seized a brass lamp to conk the head of the fellow whose neck was locked in the grip of the blue guy's arm. With a glance at the closet, he flashed that brilliant smile and said, "One down, six to go," and BAMF! disappeared again, leaving the body slumped in a heap on the floor. Elise scrabbled out to retrieve the guns the man had dropped, shoving them under the bed for the time being. The thumps and grunts of heated struggle, coming closer, convinced her to return dutifully to the closet in all haste.

Right in the nick of time. The door to his room opened – his tail twisting the handle – then the X-man tumbled backward, a gargantuan baddie in a wrestling embrace. "Try picking on someone your own size," he suggested as his slender but vigorous arms throttled the breath from the behemoth, who joined his fellow invader on the floor. A pounce, and Wagner was out the door; another heartbeat and his torso slid into view as he shut it again, fire-snapping eyes glancing in her direction. The noises of physical strife continued through the walls.

Someone was shoved against the wall which the bedroom shared with the living room, hard enough to dislodge a roll of heavy paper from the shelf above the place where Elise squatted. She twisted on her ankles, unrolling the treasure, and shone the light on it. A circus poster! Well, duh. But – on the trapeze – it was The New Guy. The fancy writing referred to him as The Incredible Nightcrawler. If he expected more treats in her kitchen, there would be a price to pay, with the currency of information. The thought came that he might be the first X-man since Wolverine to arrive complete with perfected powers and code name.

BAMF! He had two villains this time, a head nestled in the crook of each elbow. She wondered if their senses strained as hers had, to keep up with the stinky-tornado effect. As they sought to swing at him, he bent back – how the heck flexible could he be, mutant or no?! – and the impact of their jabs knocked them both out. He rammed their skulls for good measure and deposited them on top of the others. "I hope the cleaning service doesn't mind a little heavy lifting," he grinned, and disappeared with that car-smack sound and the obligatory cloud o' stink. The tap-tap-slide of his Bavarian accent made the remark even funnier for some reason.

Sitting in the closet grew wearisome. Why did she take this job, anyway? Oh, right: good pay, close enough to the folks for visits but far enough away for independence, use of a house all to herself (including the privilege of adding on such things as the hydroponic garden and a hothouse), a huge operating budget along with a totally boss kitchen at her discretion, and a chance to meet interesting people. "Interesting people," did that include the freakazoids intent on destroying the mansion this very day? Not exactly what she'd had in mind.

Maybe she should get out. Nightcrawler, Incredible or otherwise, needed to learn sooner rather than later that nobody excluded Elise Stringfellow from the action for long. Upon her hiring, The Prof had given her warnings about dangers likely to be encountered, but she'd never promised to sit back without defending herself, or others if the occasion demanded.

On the other hand, it was cozy-ish in the nice clean closet, and the circus boy seemed capable of handling a few rowdy ill-wishers.

Spoken too soon. She peered throught the slats and witnessed the lean blue form being tugged at by several brawny guys, each grasping a different writhing appendage as the bedroom door sagged off its sturdy hinges. He'd said six to go, then downed three, and now there were ... five, count 'em, five? Guess the guy was too busy to count precisely. Or too thrilled.

Or … more were coming all the time.

[to be continued ...]


	3. The Best Defense Is A Good Offense

Might behoove her to join the fray. But the combatants were so far across the room and moving too quickly to offer a good knife-throwing target, since she wouldn't want to risk hitting the entangled Wagner. Best wait til the group stumbled within reach.

Okay, they'd fallen over on the bed, the German gamely struggling. He'd rid himself of the one holding his wiry tail, by slithering it out of the moron's grasp to twine around his thick neck. That fellow gasped, collapsed, and slid off the bed; now the tail was free to pummel and slap the one twisting his right arm into what looked like an excruciating position. A reflexive sympathetic wince issued from her throat, but by the lack of reaction she assumed the boys were too involved in their fracas to notice.

While they tussled in the free world, here in Closet-Land a lumpy pressure on her calf reminded Elise of the tool she'd been loathe to lose. But if she had to fight, and every moment increased that likelihood, the first order of biz was to untie the bandana and tuck the nail gun into a corner. Be a good reason to come visiting later on – with Logey, of course; no need to give The New Guy the wrong idea. After they'd been friends awhile and she knew there was no chance of monkey business or misread intentions, then from time to time she might drop by his place alone.

A peek out the door revealed that her defender had dispatched one more of the quintet who'd tumbled into the room attached to his various extremities, leaving two to wrestle with him while stumbling over the increasing pile of forms strewn about the floor. Typical Xavier mansion decor (at least from time to time): Piles Of Bodies In Arbitrary Arrangements Between Furniture In Various Stages Of Destruction. And she used to think life at the convent had been hectic!

One ruffian's huge arms were bent like anchors around The New Guy's shoulders as his teammate wound up for a killer blow. Instead of a sensible expression of dazed dread or frozen fear, Wagner was wild-eyed with the thrill of the match. OOF! That had to hurt: he had slipped out of the tight grasp, flexible as a slinky, leaving the punch to land firmly in the other beefcake's unprepared solar plexus. Bawling like a calf, the thug melted to the ground, clutching his abdomen. The remaining would-be attacker swiveled his head with a look of terror, trying to locate his prey.

Elise, accustomed to Spidey's tactics, instinctively turned her eyes upward. Yup, just as Peeps often did, Nightcrawler clung to the ceiling. Must be second nature to those wall-crawling types. And in four, three, two, one, sure enough, he dropped on the back of the confounded criminal, pulling hair, hanging on with agile limbs while the victim spun and twirled like a carnival ride gone crazy, trying to toss him off.

Should she burst from the closet and even the odds? Not needed; with his signature cloud of malodorous smoke, he disappeared, taking the villain with him. What could he have planned for the wretch?

"No, please, don't –" The voices filtered in, somewhat muffled. They must be at the far end of the suite, near the window seat.

"Give me a reason why I should not." Sounded as if he were about to laugh.

"Because, uh, you'll have to clean up the blood and bones down there if you dropped me now." The big guy was squealing in his attempt to convince the suave indigo mutant.

"Ach, being the most recent addition, I suppose that duty would fall to me."

Elise heard scrabbling noises and a thick thud, then a clatter as if a curtain rod had been yanked down.

"You stay right there, mein Freund, and nothing worse shall happen to you." His voice grew closer. "Sorry to have trussed you like a pig, but I have a feeling I could not turn my back safely on you. Besides, the curtain sash looks quite decorative with your uniform." The grinning blue face, golden eyes glimmering with glee, appeared around the bedroom door's shattered frame.

"Fraulein Stringfellow, you are safe and comfortable?"

Elise spoke through the slats of the closet door. "Peachy keen. Enjoying the break from my exhausting job and all."

The blue man hesitated at her dry tone; then his face lit up. "I hear more of these pests on the way, but do not fret. I will soon have the area cleared so that you may come out."

"That would be great. I'll just sit tight and plan menus in my head or something." She stood and opened the door, moving out of the enclosure. "Not."

Her rescuer gave a startled leap into the room; one more bound and he was close enough to take her by the shoulders and guide the reluctant refugee back.

"Really, now," she protested, "it's getting boring in there. I can fight as well as—"

The doors snapped shut; Nightcrawler's earnest face showed through the louvers. "Bitte, Fraulein, stay you here until the bad people are in check."

"Better check behind you, Mister Know-It-All X-person," she grumbled.

Without looking, he leapt to the ceiling, leaving the enemy to fall face first on the floor, conveniently in front of the closet, while diving to attack. Elise pushed the door open a crack and beaned the fellow with all her strength on the back of his head using the sword pommel. Scabbard cool and smooth in her hands, she hauled it back and leaned it against the doorjamb. Only took a second to lift the dude's eyelid and confirm that he was out.

Another one barreled into the room, heading straight for the unguarded woman, nunchaku spread like a tripwire between his hands. Before he could reach his prey, a lean figure landed on the fellow's back, lanky flegs wrapped around the stout waist, large blue-furred fingers intertwined to make a living blindfold. The martial arts weapon flew across the space over the clutter of bodies and dropped in front of the closet; Elise stuck her foot out enough to roll it in as the hapless villain struck blindly at the grinning X-man on his back. The tail of said X-man coiled around the baddie's throat and constricted. Choking, the mount toppled. The former circus performer rolled off without missing a beat, coming up with arms spread in a victorious flourish.

His look of amusement faded upon noticing the closet door was still ajar. The cook was stuffing the martial arts weapon into a handy pocket, but stopped long enough to pretend contrition. "I know, I know, back into my little box," she sighed, muttering, "I feel like the puppeteer working the Punch and Judy show," as the doors shut again.

The river of enemies seemed to be lessening. Maybe the worst was over. Uh oh, spoken too soon. More bad guys piled in the bedroom – she couldn't help but wonder how many were in the rest of the mansion if this were merely the overflow – but Wagner, although starting to waver a bit from exertion, dodged and lunged and swang punches that always seemed to connect where it hurt the most. They must have known by now that he was shielding her, for the inexorable assault moved him closer and closer to her hideaway. At last her view was blocked by his backside firmly pushed against the doors. Not a bad sight, but not a good sign.

The closet captive nudged at the door with her knee and whispered, "Special Delivery" in the vicinity of his ear. His three-fingered right hand slid the door open enough to receive the sword as his left fist crunched into a villain's jaw, knocking the invader into three guys behind him. As the opponents pitched about in a tangle of arms, legs, weapons, and curses, the mutant reached back; Elise slipped the nunchaku into his free hand. She started pulling the door to, but was arrested by his tail, which he waggled in her face. That inspired her to extricate a knife from its sheath and place it in the writhing coil, which curled about the gator-shaped handle and retracted.

Gotta be impressed with a guy who goes into battle fully loaded.

He closed the door with one foot and plunged back into the melee, a tornado of danger leaving a trail of human wreckage in his wake. But in her experience, even "costumes" needed backup once in a while. Time for a quick inventory of her hideaway: one old poster, some funky clothing, her Hilti nail gun, and the flashlight. There was the bullwhip, but that really didn't need to be exposed to danger and possible mutilation, and one knife which might come in handy later on. The German was doing a fine job of holding his own, fairly impressive considering the short amount of time he'd been an X-person.

Although it might be more impressive if he managed to keep hold of his weapons for more than a couple of minutes. How the heck had that happened when she'd only diverted her eyes for a few moments? Then again, there were eight or nine adversaries vying for the honor of disarming him, all piled around him between the bed and the wall opposite the door to the suite. He couldn't exactly leap up with so many of them holding down various parts of his body. He oughta poof out of the room, but probably thought it necessary to stick close by and keep on eye on her.

His sword was embedded in a wingback chair – that upholstery would be so expensive to repair, but such was life in the X-mansion – and her precious knife was sticking out of the wall about seven feet up. Darn! Wouldn't hurt the titanium blade, but these people had no respect for the craftwork of the wooden handles, and _that_ injured her pride.

"Toss me something!" Nightcrawler aimed a pleading look in her direction. The nunchaku had landed in front of the closet again – but she knew better than to mess with those.

Elise stuck a hand out and pointed to the bed, hoping he'd figure out she had stashed some guns under there. His bewildered look dashed that hope.

"Anything will do, bitte!" he yelped.

The others' attention was focussed on subduing him, not on some silly girl too scared to leave her safe place. "I don't know how to use these," she hissed, scooping up the wooden and rope weapon and waving it.

"I can handle them, Liebchen," he landed a kick on the throat of one unlucky man, before two others grabbed the foot and twisted, "trust me!"

A sense of foreboding (or maybe common sense) skittered though her veins, but she lofted the nunchaku toward her new friend and hoped it wouldn't get intercepted.

The wooden weapon went straight to him alright – bonged him on the head; he stiffened for a brief moment, then slumped. Seems it was 'Crawler's turn to be knocked unconscious. So much for his "Oh you frail little human female! Hide behind me and my Mutant Greatness" type assurances. [footnote 1] Elise gaped, amazed at the irony of it all. If they lived through this, she would have to remind him that throwing the nunchaku had been _his_ idea.

"Now I know why they say these aren't for amateurs," one of the men said, tucking the implement into his crimson sateen waistband. Two of the unnamed crazies carried the flaccid blue body out of the bedroom.

She whispered a hasty prayer. "Saint Michael the Archangel, God gave you authority to kick Satan's butt, and I could use a little help in that area at the mo, thanks!" Like it or not, succeed or fail, now was the time to prove she could protect herself.

At least until Nightcrawler, wherever he ended up, roused again to save the day.

[ To Be Continued ... ]

[footnote 1] This quotation was totally stolen from "Proud To Be An X-Nerd," Wagner fangirl and fabulous ficcer, who also gave me the inspiration for having Kurt k-o'd as a result of his own advice.

[codicil to footnote] RavenHare also contributed to this part of the story -- bless her furry little heart!


	4. Know Your Enemy

[A/N - refresher course on the German expression: Fraulein = unmarried woman]

"Here I am, crouched in a closet with a bullwhip and nail gun: story of my life," Elise sighed. Again she surveyed the bedroom and took stock of her situation. Her defender gone, several weapons almost available but out of reach, and more attackers likely to be lining up outside the sagging door of her supposed sanctuary.

She tried mental contact: _"Professor? ... Jean – I mean, Mindbender? ... Anyone?"_ Was the lack of an answer due to them being preoccupied with struggles downstairs, or were they out of the game due to injury – or worse? No help from that quarter, at any rate.

She'd watched out for herself since the teen years, but sometimes it was less exhilarating than others. Part of her wished Wagner were still here; despite the disorientation which followed the experience, his instant-transportation technique could be quite valuable at a time when one was, oh, say, due to be surrounded by a clot of murderous mental midgets at any minute.

What did she know of these strangers? Not Doom's men (robotic or enslaved), nor Kingpin's thugs, and they certainly didn't give the impression of anyone remotely affiliated with Magneto, the Brotherhood, or whatever that faction called itself at the moment.

Her thoughts returned to Nightcrawler. He seemed such a genial fellow, easy to get along with, and she'd wager a case of Logan's favorite brew that the blue mutant could talk, fight, or slink his way out of most situations. Maybe he'd return shortly to save the day.

But for now, plans must be made for the solo scenario.

"Nail gun's better than no gun," the sapiens muttered to herself, sticking the magazine in until the click announced its readiness, then setting the safety. "What a waste of fuel and metal." And oh the mess it would leave, but the rooms would likely get trashed anyway. A little more spackling and painting wouldn't make much difference.

With robust fingers, she traced the ponytail flopping around where it had fallen out of its original bun, then twirled it back and knotted it into submission. Wouldn't do to have it flowing across her shoulder blades as an enticing grip for the bad guys to yank.

All those bodies littering the floor: she eyed each one with intense observation, but none seemed to be faking unconsciousness. You never could tell. Time to wade out and see what might happen next.

* * *

Kurt Wagner felt the world humming and throbbing around him. No, that was his head. His eyes refused to focus, and his arms felt on fire. No problem there; a simple bamf would release him from the plastic tie handcuffs. He concentrated on his room, where surely the cook waited for him to save the day. Deep breath, one, two, aaaaand –

Nothing. Not a puff of sulfurous smoke, not a tiny jolt of displacement. Stuck in this house of glass. Why was his special gift not working? Unable to relocate upon will, no telling what might happen next.

"Oooh, look at the cute furry mutie," one of the assailants growled, punching Nightcrawler in the stomach with a venom reserved to the morally bankrupt. Another goon chimed in, "We should get some samples of his hide. Might make good slippers if they can figure out how to tan it."

This malicious banter did not disturb their victim. He was used to such maligning; the physical blows were also something he had faced regularly from his youth. No, the searing questions were: who were these people, what possessed them to attack a houseful of well-known mutant crimefighters, how to get out of the bonds, where to procure weaponry, and when was the soonest he could manage to get back to his rooms before the Fraulein was hurt?

It would also be nice to know why his powers had vanished.

"Not so tough with the Neural Nullifier on, eh, Little Boy Blue?" sneered one of the offending party.

That answered the why; now for the who, what, where, when, and how.

* * *

Elise picked her way amongst the fallen future felons, stopping every few steps to listen for reinforcements of either party or to snag a weapon. Not much time to choose from the cache she'd stowed under the bed, but one or two things might be useful later on. No reason to leave the nail gun here to be ruined or misused. She slung it across her back, using one of the garish belts from a guy who wouldn't be needing it for a long while, by the looks of him, and tucked the Spidey bandana into a back pocket. The X-man's x-comm lay on the nightstand; it fit nicely in the screwdriver pocket of her dungarees. If the hostiles were able to keep her from reaching the Professor's mind, it was probably not a good idea to announce her whereabouts on the communications device. Like using a Ouija board, no telling who might show up in answer to her summons, so best leave it alone.

A huge thud sounded from one of the rooms below; she flinched, hoping her kitchen would not end up a disaster area. But the noise had been of the heavy variety: a couch or coffee table, she guessed. Probably Hank McCoy, aka Beast, tossing furniture around in his customary way of distracting violent enemies. When Elise was new at the Institute, she couldn't resist nicknaming him "Bones," since calling him "Dr. McCoy" always led her to that Trekkie word association.

A shattering of glass was next, from the vicinity of one of the ground-floor parlors; probably Cyclops letting loose with his optic rays, or maybe Cannonball doing his thing. At least a couple of X-people were functional although The Prof and Jean, were non-responsive. At this point, the cook would even welcome the annoying Iceman's help. Not that she would enjoy being razzed later about being rescued by the irrepressible chill-pill.

Oh, goodie! The nunchaku must have slipped from the baddie's belt. Might be good to add it to her arsenal. The young woman stole gingerly out of the bedroom, feeling a bit conspicuous with a rifle woven through the shoulder straps across her back and banging against the bulge of her Hilti, pistols sprouting from her pockets, and grenades clutched in her left hand like a pair of large and lethal limes. Thank goodness one of her knives was stashed in the shin sheath; they'd come in plenty handy many times before she had been hired at this somewhat dangerous venue.

What was taking the new German guy so long to return? Maybe he didn't heal as fast as Logan and some of the others. The purple puff of his grand entrance failed to come, and Elise worried that he might have met a similar fate to whatever had crippled Xavier's telepathy.

* * *

Nightcrawler pushed down the pain and pondered his present predicament. First step: find out what would undo their hideous anti-mutant gizmo. No, back up, first step: find out what the Neutralizer looked like, then conceive a way to neutralize it.

Blood trickled from his swelling lower lip as he panted, "So you are proud of your advancements in modern science, eh? Leveling the paying field? I'll bet your little machine won't stand up to our latest secret weapon" _Please forgive me, Lord, this little white lie, which isn't quite an untruth, _he resisted a tiny smile, _as I myself might be the secret weapon. _

They answered with another fierce assault upon his person, but as he had hoped, three sets of eyes flitted toward a two-foot-wide clay pot on one of the tables standing against the wall of the greenhouse.

Now, to gain access to it. His innate athletic abilities were diminished only by the beatings, not affected by the device. Buy time to recharge, then reach the object with a few tumbling maneuvers which he could do in any condition, thanks to his years in the circus.

"Do any of you gentlemen smoke?" he asked in his most polite, nonchalant manner.

The villains exchanged "he's nuts" glances; one of them shrugged and replied, "Not on the job, you defective dunce."

"Ah, then there would be no use in my telling you about some .... 'special' herbs grown here." This wasn't really lying either, he reasoned, because only a certain type of mind would allow itself to be led in a particular direction.

More shifty looks passed between the trio of malcontents. The shrugger started sidling around the perimeter of the hothouse, glancing in various pots, lifting a lid here and there on buckets or jars. The other two began to snoop a bit on some of the center tables, inspecting the more spindly-leafed specimens such as false Aralia. It was all the distraction he needed. Up he leapt, to the side of the wall nearest the large pot.

Such a shame that his clinging capability had been removed by the invaders' technology. Ah, well, it had been worth a try. He slipped down, twisting so that his tail curled around the lip of the terracotta pot. With a supreme effort, he flung it across the room; it shattered as the three humans rushed to save its contents.

Kurt jumped again toward the ceiling, hoping the Nullifier had been harmed enough in the fall to return his mutant capacities. The slick glass afforded no suctioning surface to his useless soles; unable to dig his fingernails into the metal framework holding the panes, he plunged downward and landed hard on his side. Barely able to breathe, Nightcrawler choked out a feeble pun, "Too bad I gave up using a safety net." With a groan, he rolled over to face his foes again.

[To Be Continued ...]


	5. Hide and Sneak

[Translations (more or less) Deutsch = English

Mein Gott = My God

danke = Thank you

nicht wahr = Isn't that right?

und = and

ja = yes

gut = good

ach = all-purpose interjection similar to "oh" or "tch"

auf Wiedersehen = goodbye (for now)

Frau = Mrs.

bitte = please ]

[Also: a vardo is a gypsy wagon; "en pointe" and "jeté" are ballet terms. As my Daddy used to tell me, "Look 'em up in the dictionary."]

* * *

Kurt stood on tiptoe, gritted his teeth – which wasn't such a bright idea considering the bruise from which a few drops of blood still dripped – and head-butted a hanging basket of rosemary, the force slamming it into one of the windows. After a few quick thrusts of his sinewy arms, the jagged glass left in the frame sawed through his plastic manacles. **[footnote 2]** The three hooligans vacillated between guarding their neural disruptor and recapturing him. They were weaponless, having tossed their odd guns aside in the surprise of his pitching the huge pot. He tumbled between two of the enemy, his large-knuckled fists shooting out to catch each of them in a sensitive area: the nose for one, and under the chin for the other. They reeled backwards, leaving barely enough room for the acrobat to sprint past them and bounce to a perch on the remnant of the overturned pot, which lay in a semi-circle like a clay cave.

His prehensile feet lapped around the smooth terracotta edge, but his eyes were not as sharp as usual and he was forced to scrabble around inside the broken vessel to grope for anything unusual. He felt something hard and solid amongst the tiny pieces of pottery scraping at his fingers, and extracted an object, obviously the source blocking his mutant abilities. The box, about three inches tall and five inches wide, had several small buttons and connected to some kind of funnel. By this time all three intruders had regained their weaponry and were advancing toward him.

He silently counseled himself, _Think quickly! Throw them off their guard_.

"Mein Gott!" he cried in a voice that almost made the glass door shake. Holding the purloined object aloft, he raised his head toward the heavens, visible through the hothouse ceiling. "Thank You, Mighty One, for helping this poor deformed soul to find the scourge which these evildoers would unleash on your defenseless servant." Exaggerated, yes, but his time as an illusionist had taught him that theatricality was most imperative when performing sleight of hand. The three thugs were within firing range, should they choose to air-condition his hide by way of several holes, but their attention was focused on his broad movements. He made a swooping Sign Of the Cross, certain they focused on his movements as their faces traced the path of his prayer. He slapped the closest combatant with his tail, which caught the weapon as it was dropped, then leveled it at the leader's brain.

"Now, would you be so kind as to slide the other guns very carefully across the floor to me? ... Danke. ... I wonder how many blasts of this weapon it would require to permanently disable your fine instrument?" He enjoyed hearing their gulps of dismay, as the Adam's apples did a dance of despair and sweat sprang out on their foreheads.

One of them clutched at thin air as if seeking a stable surface; his eyes rolled back as he dropped to the floor like a large sack of dog chow.

Kurt recalled many enjoyable hours spent building various scientific devices in the solitude of his foster mother's vardo while her children freely roamed the towns in which the circus played. He pushed a button - his eyes blurred as an inaudible vibration shook him to the roots of his teeth. His hand spasmed, toggling a small silver switch, and the pain receded. Must remember never to touch the green button again! He started to unscrew the funnel, assuming it was a type of broadcaster.

"Don't do that," the long-nosed leader yelled. "It'll blow us all up!"

The captive-turned-captor decided that, if the fellow had been in earnest, the two remaining goons would have hit the floor, rolled under a table, or at least covered their heads with their arms. Ignoring the bluff, he continued to detach the conical amplifier and was rewarded with a decreased buzzing in the back of his brain.

Who could be so clever as to create such a thing, yet be so clumsy testing it out? Aaaah - the unfashionably-dressed men were _sent_ by someone who considered them expendable. Perhaps their stupidity could be put to good use.

A vague motion by one of his prisoners caused the tail to wave its weapon about. "Patience, my friends. I can point and shoot without even looking up. Ah, the joys of being a 'genejoke'." In his heart, he asked forgiveness for the small exaggeration. Weakened by the previous fight, possible concussion, and the object in his hand, he needed every advantage possible, including playing on the gullibility and bias of the mind washed men before him.

* * *

Elise reviewed the dwindling options for safety: elevator would be a dumb move, so would grand staircase or even the emergency stairs at the far end of each corridor. Secret Passage, then. A quick poke of the head outside the door from Nightcrawler's body-strewn living room revealed no intruders. This lull wouldn't last forever. The young woman sprinted to the third door on the right, dashed into Sweetie-Petey's room, counted out the paces measuring the distance to the hidden doorway and -

"Oh, Rasputin, you igmo!" she cried aloud in her frustration. A solid ebony chest of drawers blocked her way.

"Typical," she muttered to herself. "Just 'cause _he _can bust a hole in the wall, thinks it's okay to cover up the emergency escape route. When this is all over, I'll put the diamond-tip blade on my grinder and carve 'I Will Not Block Secret Exits' on his shiny silver hide! If I survive."

It was much too far to drop to the ground outside the window, even if there were time to make a bed sheet rope as they did in the movies. Wandering around the hallways would attract attention before reaching any safe place. She was cornered. At least she had some weapons, but what good would they do in the hands of one person if those jerks ended up swarming into the room?

Time to rig some defenses, plan a couple of offensive strategies, and then hope to remain unnoticed until the X-people got their freaking act together.

Thank goodness none of the bad boys knew where she was hiding.

Contrary to her assumptions, not all of the enemies' armaments were assault-oriented. One of the weapons she'd picked up on her journey over the fallen intruders transmitted location and a visual output of its surroundings.

In the stairwell at the end of the hall, a young man in hot pink sateen britches and a flowing rusty-orange paisley shirt allowed himself a secret smile of satisfaction before reporting to his leader.

* * *

Kurt spoke in the soft voice used in his mercenary days, the tone he'd perfected which told people that although he was a nice guy, that could change as fast as the snap of a neck if they got out of line.

"My jolly good fellows," he began, the British words sounding incongruous due to his German accent which spiked soft consonants and turned a sharp "s" sibilant, "nobody wants to get hurt, nicht wahr?" One nodded with the vigor of a spineless goofball, while the leader narrowed his eyes and looked puzzled at this turn of events. "So do us all a favor und pick up your comrade. March very slowly, - ja, ja, gut - over to the corner. Lay him down gently under that table of ferns. Now put your hands against the wall." Upon seeing the position they took, he sighed and added more specific instructions. "Nein, turn your backs to me and put your palms above your heads ... that's right." Gun still trained on them, he picked up a roll of Elise's ubiquitous duct tape and squatted to bind the wrists and ankles of the unconscious foe. For good measure should he awaken, the mouth received a swatch of tape.

A slight rustle behind him betrayed the advance of the leader, who had sneaked close enough to grab the gun from his tail. Nightcrawler whipped around, then jumped high in the air and landed out of reach.

But not out of range. The young man waved the weapon and growled, "Odds are even now, mutie freak."

Kurt pretended to pick the nails of his free hand with his thumb, grip still firm on the prize, and replied, "Ach, your grasp of mathematics is a bit shaky." All of a sudden, he hopped on the nearest workbench and grabbed a small pot of soil, tossed it at the henchman, then threw another at the remaining man. The leader ducked but managed to keep hold of his gun, while the second guy got beaned in the temple. He clutched his eye, whimpering, and cowered against the wall.

Since they insisted on being uncooperative, more persuasive methods would be needed, Nightcrawler decided.

The leader wiped dirt from his eyes and wiggled his shoulders to dislodge more. He blinked and blinked – a good thing, because he couldn't focus well enough to take a useful shot.

Kurt's gaze flitted about the area, landing on a possible solution. If his plan worked, the gunman's vision would grow worse in a matter of moments.

* * *

The cook, a confirmed spinster, was wondering why she kept ending up in men's bedrooms today. At least she hadn't been forced to take refuge in Logan's – oh, the thought of being stuck in that smelly den of dishevelment!

What could be useful here? A portrait of Kitty Pryde stood half-finished ... less than half ... an odd use of empty space ... ah! Rasputin had left room to paint himself in next to the spunky brunette. Elise would never understand the need most people felt for romance, sex, or both. Life was too full of other things without having to drag another person along. Although at the moment, another person – preferably one with superhuman powers – might be a good thing. She pulled the portrait into the small shaft of light from the hallway, then lugged a full-length mirror near the corner of the bed, hidden in the canvas's shadow. At this stage of the game, anything could be used in self-defense. Thinking of ways to use the unique tools would be the challenge.

But this little woman loved challenges.

* * *

As the greenhouse standoff continued, Kurt pondered a strange coincidence: a few nights ago, while the cook brought enchiladas into the dining room, one of the X-men had teased her about the potency of her home-grown peppers. Another thought it wonderful that she used them as an organic pest spray.

These silk and satin fellows were certainly pests. And the spray bottle he spied a couple of tables away showed a hand drawn label which featured skull and crossbones shaped like hot peppers. To hide his true intention, he armed himself with a trowel hooked in his tail and another mini-pot in his hand.

"Yeah, that's really gonna scare me, you scruffy blue monster!" the leader hissed. His eyes squinted due to the dirt still trickling off his matted hair.

Kurt leaped to the bottle, caught it in one prehensile foot, and jetéd toward the hoodlums, landing en pointe as he spritzed their eyes. Some people considered his feet misshapen, but at times like this, they were quite useful, graceful even.

With yelps of pain and surprise, both invaders crumbled to the floor, rubbing their eyes, the gun forgotten. The Incredible Nightcrawler divested himself of his impromptu weapons and took up the duct tape, easily wrestling them until each had joined the fellow conspirator in helpless immobilization.

It required a few extra moments to disentangle himself from the bits and pieces of silvery tape clinging to various parts of his anatomy. In a conversational tone, he said, "Ach, people whose bodies are covered in fur do not fare well attempting to duct tape others who lack that kind of skin." He found a water tap and some clean cloth, then squatted on the floor to cleanse the eyes of his two moaning prisoners. They squirmed and blinked, but at last lay still.

"I shall send someone to transport you to a place of more comfort when able. For now, my associates must be informed that I am free." He picked up the anti-mutant apparatus, smiled and waved, acting insouciant despite the raw wrists and bruised lip. "Auf Wiedersehen." **BAMF!**

Although he would have loved to smash the offending device, he 'ported straight to the room where he and Dr. Hank McCoy had fought, knowing the genius would want to disassemble a working model, not re-assemble a broken jumble. Scott was there as well, so Kurt filled them both in on events which had occurred after he had been dispatched to guard Elise. He placed the two portions of the mechanism on a writing desk in front of McCoy, saying, "If I may offer advice, avoid the green button."

Hank nodded, then twisted the horn-shaped piece a bit, apparently fascinated to the point of ignoring the man who had brought it.

"I shall return to the rescuing of the cook," Kurt announced, shuffling toward the double doors to the parlor. Jaunting here, even with that infernal device partly disabled, had taken a lot out of him; climbing walls would surely not be as much of a strain, and give him a chance to scope out any ruffians still creeping around.

Cyclops leaned over the gadget which Beast had already taken apart using a letter opener, a few paper clips, and a plastic ruler. "Not so fast, Nightcrawler." He tilted his head and addressed the scientist. "This contraption interfered with his powers when he was in the greenhouse, but not ours. Now he's back to teleporting, but we haven't heard a peep from Jean."

"Nor have we received communication by our esteemed Professor," Beast added, scratching his chin. "It could have been synchronized with brainwaves specific to certain types of aptitude; however, I do find it perplexing that neither one has contacted us telepathically for quite some measure of time. We must deduce that an alternate means of subjugating their ability is in place."

"Then we look for them the old-fashioned way. I'll do the east wing downstairs and contact Rogue to take the second floor since she can fly. Kitty can phase through the third floor rooms quickly enough." Cyclops pointed to the newest X-man. "You search this section."

"I would prefer Rogue's assignment, since I left our—"

The chief stared through his ruby quartz lenses, put his hands on his hips, and frowned. "You've spent quite a bit of time in this area since you arrived. Rogue is familiar with the rooms on her floor. Take orders and we'll dissect the plan at debriefing, okay?" He clapped the athletic fellow on the back, following up with a mild push toward the door.

Kurt half-turned to salute over his shoulder, then left to explore the myriad rooms. Either luck was with him, or St. Anthony – the patron saint of lost objects – heeded his quick prayer, for in the Professor's study he found the two missing persons. Jean, lovely in her uniform with a pattern of swirled "X"s in shades of lavender, pale green, and peach, lay slumped, tied up in a wingback chair. Kurt ran his fingers through a lock of the irresistibly luscious red hair, then patted her cheek. "Frau Summers? Mindbender? Can you hear me?" He propped himself on the maroon leather chair arm, feeling woozy.

There was a pungent odor hanging about. He hurried to open some windows, then untied the lady and turned to the Professor, whose head was tossed back over the rear of the custom electric wheelchair to which his hands were strapped, slight snores escaping from his slack mouth.

They showed no sign of rousing. He patted every pocket of his uniform, but found no X-comm. He was loathe to shout to Scott in case there were still enemies lurking close by. Nor could he leave them alone, for the same reason. St. Jude must have been on duty this time, for the hopeless case was resolved as the lovely Ororo, known also as Storm, flew in through a large window.

"Bitte, Storm, would you be so kind as to watch these two? They must have breathed in some poisonous gas und are, how do you say it, out cold."

"I'll notify Cyclops," she said, pulling an X-comm from the belt at her slender waist.

"You are as kind and helpful as you are beautiful!"

Storm's thick lips curved into an attractive smile. "I hear you have some medical knowledge; will you help me wake them up?"

Kurt's eyes glowed, his discomfort obvious. "If you will forgive me, my lovely new friend, there is one thing I must do before all else."

[to be continued ...]

**[footnote 2]** Thanks to my brilliant hubby, who figured out how Kurt could get the handcuffs off. Nothing like practice, I always say. Just Kidding!


	6. Collision Courses

Nightcrawler ran into his suite, ready to fling the closet open and gather the nondescript woman triumphantly into his arms. "I am here!" he crowed, then stopped at the threshold to his bedroom, deflating like a punctured blow-up punching bag at the sight of the empty closet.

"At least I may redeem myself in her eyes," he said to himself, and extracted Elise's gator-handled knife from the sheetrock, like a small version of Excalibur from the stone. He whispered to his reflection in a mirror which had miraculously been left intact, "This is the work of a true artisan. Surely she would be upset if something happened to it." He reclaimed his sword, digging in the closet for the scabbard and belt to buckle it across his back, and searched a few moments for his X-comm, without success. It could wait. He had a quick way of finding his charge without using their fine technology.

Several fruitless jaunts later, he sagged against the wall of the pantry to catch his breath. Perhaps it would be useful in future to carry his cell phone in his uniform, in case he misplaced the X-comm again. He left the knife in a drawer where he had noticed she kept a variety of sharp gadgets.

But where to find the cook herself? Certainly she would need him and his fighting skills. The sulky young men skulking about the campus would no doubt have evil intentions toward a young, isolated Fraulein. "I'm no hero," he thought, "but rescuing damsels could easily become my specialty."

Certain shuffling noises from above aroused his suspicion. Nightcrawler scampered up the walls to the ceiling. Better to lie in wait and assess the situation by careful listening than 'port into the middle of an enemy who might be a walking arsenal.

* * *

Elise surveyed her arsenal, keeping an ear out for any suspicious sounds. Sure enough, there were footfalls at the far end of the hallway: how best to discourage them from coming near until she could figure a way out of this room?

Guns would only be good when they were close enough to shoot back: nix that idea. Nail gun? Nah, same limitation. Concussion grenades. If she lobbed one several feet in the direction of the main staircase, it might not do much damage to the far end of the hall but would still leave the rest of the wing accessible to her. "Please, God, don't let anyone be close enough for this to do any serious damage to 'em. They're just a bunch of dumb males. No offense."

"FIRE IN THE HOLE!" Elise pulled the pin, chucked one out, skittered back to the far corner of Colossus' room and hunkered down behind his massive bed.

Nothing. "They don't make ordnance like they used to." She stroked the shark-shaped knife handle peeking out from where her crouching caused the overalls leg to ride up. "People have no pride in their craftsmanship."

* * *

In the opposite direction from the spot where Elise had tossed the weapon, the man in the stairwell heard her shout, but soon found out why there was no explosion following: the locator disguised as a grenade wobbled harmlessly down the corridor like an avocado on vacation.

The cook reflected that, while there is bound to be a dud in every crowd, some crowds are made of nothing but duds. With luck, that would not be the case with her pilfered ammo. Again she yelled, pulled, galloped, hid as the rumbling jolt shook the room.

* * *

Directly below the spot where the real grenade landed, The Incredible Nightcrawler felt the earth move under his feet. Actually, he felt the ceiling quake; the shuddering caused him to lose his grip and plunge to the floor, pieces of sheetrock still clinging to his feet. "This drywall is not sturdy. Nobody plasters as firm as they used to!"

Little flakes of paint snowed down on him following impact. He blinked at the sudden shower of specks and pulled the sword belt back in place, then massaged his shoulder. Tiny crimson drops, spotted with minuscule debris, fell on his elbow from his re-bloodied lip. But his concern was not for his own troubles. "Those evil miscreants! Tossing such dangerous devices when there are civilians about!"

* * *

"Not bad for a civilian," Elise whispered to her reflection in Piotr's full-length mirror. "But that'll only slow 'em down. There will be 'gentleman callers' at the door before long." She wondered why Scott hadn't sent reinforcements or at least a search party. If they had reached the shelter far below the mansion proper, surely by now they should have noticed her absence, and that of the newbie too.

* * *

Scott and Hank heard the thunder, exchanged looks, and returned to their activities.

Hank, looking at the the device they'd carried into the Professor's study, said, "The conception arises that, after defending herself in multiple incursions by hostile elements, Miss Stringfellow may garner the designation of a code name, albeit she is not in the strictest sense of the term an X-man."

Cyclops snorted. "I can imagine what she'd come up with." He stuck his fists out, stretching. "Something like Spatulista, or Whack-a-Moley."

Hank put down the disassembled Neutralizer. "It would appear that the mere mention of our mislaid domestic triggers a long-buried sense of humor, mon Captain. Being somewhat neutral politically, she may not be enraptured by the suggestion I would make: a moniker given to former Prime Mister Thatcher." He grinned, sharp teeth not at all frightening when framed by the friendly furry face. "Attila the Hen." A stunted, grunt-like laugh escaped from Cyclops. McCoy gestured toward the front window and asked, "Shall I reconnoiter the grounds and convey possible lingerers to a secure point?"

"No, head below. Your medical expertise may be necessary."

Beast gathered his contraption pieces, bundled them in a table runner, and shuffled toward the door. He said, "Would I be correct in presuming that you expect our newest cyan-colored team member presently, with Elise in tow?"

The leader continued to untie Mindbender. "I assume that's what he was telling Storm before he left. If not and she's attempting to fight solo, Rogue and Kitty can't get hurt by her antics, but at least they'll eventually search that area and bring Elise to safety."

* * *

In the opposite wing, Kitty "Shadowcat" Pryde phased through the ceiling to the second-floor hallway. She'd taken out several of the enemy clowns with a few simple martial arts techniques mastered during bone-bruising sessions with that scary Wolverine guy, and now was on her way from the rear patio area. Scott had said it shouldn't be difficult to sweep through the third floor in search of marauders, hired help, wounded X-men, etc. Phasing would be quicker than walking; Shadowcat went through the parlor, literally, then walked on air up to the ceiling. She materialized through the floor of the second-story hallway, shoulders poking up through the carpet like a piece of fallen statuary, her back toward Rogue who, unaware of their potentially dangerous encounter, zoomed along toward the sound of Elise's first hollered warning in the east wing.

The Southern belle with the white streak streaked millimeters above Kitty's noggin. Shocked by the sudden rush of wind, Kitty solidified, momentarily stuck in the floor. Turning to see the near-miss, Rogue angled down. The momentum and trajectory caused her shoulder to clunk to the floor, which in turn crumbled. "Sometimes invulnerability and super-strength jus' stink," she muttered as the two women plummeted into the room below, falling on and then through a pool table as Kitty's composure returned and she went into phase mode, clutching Rogue's gloved hand.

Flustered by the impromptu get-together, the pair crawled from under the pool table, dusted off, full of giggles, and hit the wet bar for a moment.

Kitty said, "We deserve a quick drink. What do you have back there?"

"Ginger ale for you, li'l miss jailbait," Rogue said with a grin, chest still heaving from the surprise and the laughter.

"No sign of the cook yet - do you think she's okay?"

"Leez has a knack of gettin' out of trouble almost as good as gettin' into it."

"But Cyclops says you can't trust to luck."

"Much as I hate to agree with him, he's right." Her bayou accent made the word sound like "rot." Perhaps on purpose. "But we'll be along soon enough, Honey. If we rescue her too fast, she'll think we're bein' patronizin'." She cocked her head. "Didja hear that? Somethin's shakin' 'round here, an' I mean literally."

Kitty nodded, then put down her can of soda and placed one arm around Rogue's waist. "Let's investigate, pardner."

"Hi-ho Silver an' all that."

They phased up through the ceiling like a pair of ghosts in an elevator, separated, and headed past the huge balustrades of the main staircase. Ahead of them a villain in a neon-blue vest and royal purple silk pantaloons stalked, peering into the door next to Nightcrawler's room. He veered across the hall to push open another door, then crossed again. His feet crunched on some of the debris from the mess up ahead.

The female duo looked at each other, winked, and launched themselves at the enemy, Rogue tackling him as Kitty squatted to cover his mouth and suppress any vocalizations. She whispered in his ear, "The lady on top of you has the power to toss you out that window at the far end of the hall. I suggest you co-operate."

Rapid head-nodding ensued, his eyes almost showing the whites as they strained to see Kitty on his side and Rogue on his back.

"Keep your voice down when you answer or you'll regret what might be your last yell."

Rogue added, "No use alertin' every crazy cohort around here. How many more of ya are there?"

The teen slid her palm from the captive's mouth, keeping it close enough to clamp again in an instant.

"I dunno. Lots. I woke up to that grenade and went looking for any of the other fellas." He changed to a mutter. "Stupid broads can't leave a guy alone."

Rogue, in hushed tones asked, "You expect us to think YOU didn't throw that explosive? Gimme a break, ya houn' dog."

"If I'd known it'd bring out all you babes in skin-tight uniforms, believe me, I woul—" Kitty's furious fist silenced the sexist stream.

Rogue climbed off the prone form and, keeping her voice low, said to Kitty, "Guess we'll assume he was lyin'." She nodded to the wreckage in front of them. "Musta been what we heard at the bar after our li'l escapade. If that _is_ 'Leez's doin', she'll come a-trottin' out here any minute."

Kitty nodded, circling in a 360 inspection of the hallway. A hand flopped out of the doorway to Nightcrawler's room. "Let me slip in," she mouthed. Once inside, she surveyed the tangle of bodies and reached for her X-comm. "Cyclops, this is Shadowcat. We have a lot of perps in a room up here. Most of them seem to be out cold."

"Bring them to the holding cells."

"I still haven't memorized all the escape routes and secret passageways. It's like a super-sized game of _Clue_!"

"Rogue can show you where they are." There was a brief pause, followed by some quiet words in the background, before Scott spoke again. "Good work."

"But we still haven't found Elise. What should we do?"

"If she's not in the pile of bodies, we'll assume she's safe for the time being. Nightcrawler was carried away too, but Storm said he broke free and was going to save the cook. Cyclops out."

Kitty smiled and relayed the info to her compatriot who had walked in, the insensible bad guy slung over her shoulders like a gym towel. Rogue asked, "Can a li'l slip of a thang like you haul some o' these big ol' fellas alright?"

Shadowcat straightened herself and said, nose a tad in the air, "That stinky Wolverine's been showing me some kind of mystical samurai secrets. I think I can handle it." She selected a suitably small runt from the pile, grabbed him, and arranged him so he wouldn't disrupt her center of gravity. "It might be easier for me to take the straight route," she said, finger pointing downward.

Rogue nodded toward the pool area. "I can fly out the window to the bunker entrance and show you how to find it." She adjusted her burden and grabbed another man in each arm. "Ready, Sugah? Let's do some bad boy collectin'!"

* * *

Storm returned from a fly-around over the grounds. "I found nothing amiss."

Kurt entered the study.

"Nightcrawler, where have you been?" Cyclops' voice was steady, but his taut frame lent a severe cast to the words.

"Looking for the Fraulein. She is not in the safe spot where I left her."

"Of course not. Took matters into her own hands. It's time for us to visit the underground complex, assess everyone's situation in person."

Storm, pacing, asked, "Do you prefer that I continue patrolling for the duration of the crisis, or join you below if there is nothing new?"

Jean waggled her head, her words blurred. "Nobody new coming. Is it dinner time yet?"

Cyclops ignored Storm's small smile. "I trust your judgment. For once we'll play it by ear." He scooped his wife up in his arms, gestured with his head at Xavier, and addressed the blue mutant. "You guide the Professor's chair."

"What about the cook – you told me to look after her!"

Storm said, face calm as a hidden lake, "Now that Elise is aware of our plight, I pity anyone foolish enough to cross her." The lovely African approached an open window and flew into her beloved outdoors.

Charles Xavier, a model of dignity despite a head currently prone to nodding, tried to reason with Kurt. "By your account, she helped fight even while hidden in your closet. And most of the infiltrators have been caught." To the veteran X-men, but not the newest addition, he added mentally, _Heaven help the ones who might stumble across our dear friend._

"It's every man for himself at this point," the tactical leader replied aloud, a grim expression fixed on his features.

Kurt blurted, "But she is a defenseless lady."

Jean wriggled in her husband's arms, gave a far-away smile and murmured, "Wrong on both counts, Nightcrawler," then lapsed back into a gas-induced stupor.

Scott paused for a moment and turned his crimson eyepiece toward the fretful German acrobat. "She should survive, although the second floor might not."

_[To Be Continued ...]_

[Author's Note: Thanks again to my incredible Hubby who advised me on various matters and even donated a few of the funniest lines. And certain people (including "Boom") who filled me in on the finer points of grenade types.]


	7. Hide and Squeak

[Deutsch expressions Kurt uses in this chapter:

und = and

Mein Freund = my friend

Bitte = please

Herr = mister, a polite form of address

Nein = no

Danke = thank you]

* * *

Elise knelt behind the doorframe to Colossus' room; anxious to spot any lurkers, she poked her head out for an instant. A fellow wearing a neon-blue vest and royal purple silk pantaloons weaved from room to room. She retracted and paused to think. When the baddy traipsed to this end of the hall and peeked in the doorway, what would he see? She turned and viewed the room in the dim "v" of light angling from the hallway. Good: Kitty's smiling face seemed almost real, good enough for a target to draw enemy fire away from the flesh-and-blood hired help. If something happened to the canvas, Rasputin would make no fuss. Kitty was unaware of his crush on her, and for the moment the shy Russian wanted his feelings, expressed in the portrait, to remain secret.

Sounds of scuffling and whispering drifted in. From the jolt a few minutes before, she assumed her tactics had given the invaders a moment's pause. Now they were probably regrouping. If there were friends about, they would find a way into her hidey-hole or call her name, at least if it were safe to come out. _Thank goodness Ma and Dad don't know the half of what goes on here_, she thought. _They understood I'd be in occasional danger, but am I wrong to hide some of the less pleasant incidents from them?_ Her independent spirit supplied the answer to calm her worries. _Ignorance is bliss._ Then her snarky side added, _Which means some of these X-bozos must be the happiest people alive._

* * *

While Elise pondered her choices, Kitty and Rogue prepared to lug down to the brig a few more of the villains Kurt had vanquished; a fellow in ginger and lemon houndstooth check breeches scooted out on hands and knees to flee down the passage. Rogue dropped her burdens and flew to tackle him, then sped back over the mess from the grenade to the door of Nightcrawler's suite. She whispered, wary of rousing any who might be hiding further down the wing. Easier to clean up one mess at a time. "I didn't think ta count 'em up. Ya think any more woke up and snuck off while we were luggin' that first batch?"

Kitty's brow furrowed. "Maybe we need to cross to the western wing and have another teeny nip from that bar."

Rogue felt a bit sorry for the kid, so young and saddled with all this. On the other hand, she herself had been forced to fend for herself as a young teen; at least Pryde had a safe haven and plenty of adult guidance. "Perish the thought."

The youngster shrugged and grabbed a slender fellow, then trudged into the hallway. "I guess we take this group bit by bit and hope we get 'em all?"

Rogue nodded, the white streak bobbing like lightning. "What Scott doesn't know won't hurt him ... o' course, it might hurt someone else."

* * *

Thuds and muffled conversation issued from the direction of Nightcrawler's room. More of the invaders coming to, no doubt. After seeing the guy in blue and purple, Elise had tiptoed to the dark side of the room and slipped back behind the makeshift hiding place, glad to have her nail gun tucked away along with a few of the pilfered weapons. She checked the flashlight to be sure it hadn't been jostled into a state of inaction, pulled the bullwhip out of her side leg pocket and smoothed out the kinks. A kinky whip was no use at all. Pistols and rifle were loaded and in easy reach. Okay, so maybe she had more weaponry than the average fellow slinking through the mansion might carry. If the enemy didn't come calling, she might feel a bit foolish to be discovered with an array of armaments, but better a live fool than a deceased damsel in distress.

Footfalls in the hallway. But so far they weren't coming in her direction. A few grunts as if the unseen were lifting heavy objects. What could they be planning? And why hadn't Mr. All-Seeing Cyclops planned a way to get her out of this mess yet?

* * *

In the safe tunnels and emergency-situation rooms tucked away below ground, Kurt Wagner looked up as one of the youngest X-men entered, carrying a load of two no longer sinister but still sartorially-challenged sods. One of the limp bodies seemed familiar, but Nightcrawler had fought so many foes today that he couldn't be certain. He approached the young girl and attempted to lever the unconscious fellow from her shoulders. Her eyes widened and she shied away.

"I can handle it, thanks anyway," she blurted, then scuttled toward the section where the intruders were placed into a variety of enclosures geared toward holding villains of various abilities.

Kurt sighed. This one, Shadowcat, reacted toward him the way so many non-mutants did. Yet she herself disappeared into walls and shorted out electrical systems. She had a normal appearance, he told himself, and probably was only now becoming accustomed to the idea that she was vastly different from her peers. He had been given his whole life to adjust to the fact. Not that he ever became inured to the reactions his looks created. He returned his attention to inspecting another young X-man. "Only a few lacerations here und there, mein Freund. You should be fine."

"There was so much blood," the shuddering young man answered, "I guess I panicked."

"You will soon be flying around again in search of more trouble, I am sure." Kurt smiled, and felt the kid's taut muscles relax under the spandex as he received a smile in response. At least most of the people here did not seem uncomfortable around him.

Then it hit him.

* * *

It had been a while since the hidden cook had heard motion, but on the wall across from her sanctuary, a shadow crept. _Almost showtime. I'll bean him and deal with the body later_. Drat! Where did that nunchaku go? Elise wondered. Looking down, she realized, with the same queasy feeling of someone who had spent a long night binging on greasy food, that it was no longer hanging from her hammer loop.

A silhouette in the doorframe reached down to grab the weapon which she'd dropped during the grenade-lobbing incident.

Lucky for her, he didn't know about the dish towels.

* * *

Suddenly Kurt's mental picture snapped into focus: the man Kitty carried had been in front of his bedroom closet. The closet from which Elise had either escaped, or been captured. It was worth another rebuff to find out all he could; after all, he had been charged with defending her, and it would not look good if he ruined one of his first assignments as an X-man. Again he approached the girl with the fluffy hair.

"Bitte, excuse me, Shadowcat –"

"Um, yeah, kinda busy now." Kitty did not look up but continued to tighten the restraints on her captive before rolling him into a cell secured by old-fashioned iron bars appropriate for holding non-enhanced humans.

"When you were in my quarters, did you see any sign of the cook?"

"Nope. Grabbed a bunch of losers and boogied straight down here. Gotta go back for more, bye now." She walked upwards on air and disappeared through the ceiling._ Okay, _she thought,_ I forced myself to answer politely, but the way those eyes glow, like someone from a horror flick, and a tail like a devil - c'mon, how could anyone not feel creeped-out around him? _She remembered telling Scott last week that the new blue guy talked like Nazis did in old movies. Scott had patted her on the shoulder and said, "You watch too many movies." _Big help._

Kurt's shoulders sagged. He had tried so hard to befriend his new teammates, and to be especially gallant, courteous, and non-threatening toward this youngster. But his gentle tone, thoughtful gestures, and kind words did nothing to dispell her dislike of him. Maybe his mutation did not cause the fearful reaction. Perhaps there was in her past a bad memory associated with a German nanny?

* * *

Elise held her breath as the dude straightened up. Ready, aim, BINGO! A flick, a twist, a tug, and the implement clattered at her feet. "None for you, Chucky. No nunchaku, that is." She unwrapped the weapon from the bullwhip which had snagged it so quickly. The greasy-haired young man charged, but the nunchaku lobbed in the air landed on his head hard enough to knock him out. "Thank you, Guardian Angel," she whispered, "two in a row." Although her first success, the blue mutant, had been unintended, so maybe that didn't count.

However, all that practice horsing around in the kitchen had counted. "Towel Wars" she called it, and many of the X-men (as well as some of the Institute students who were at times allowed in the X-men wing) liked to challenge the feisty cook to use her ever-present dish towel to rip a towel from between their hands. About the same technique as using the bullwhip, in her opinion.

* * *

"Herr Professor," Kurt edged through the X-men milling about the cavernous safe room, "I wonder if you have a moment to answer a brief question."

The Professor's eyes wobbled slightly but soon focused. "Certainly. I sssseem to be fffree at the moment."

Kurt shone a penlight in Xavier's eyes and took his pulse again. The slight slurring of speech was worrisome, but he appeared to be on the mend. "I wondered if you had spoken with Kitty about ... uh, about ..." he crouched next to the wheelchair and spoke softly into the Professor's ear, "me."

Charles Xavier looked at Kurt, knit his eyebrows, and answered in an equally quiet voice, "I believe she issss too young for you. Now, Oro-ro-ro-roro might be more app-propriate." He frowned and looked about him, as if searching for a lost object. "Nnno, wait. I believe she is enamored of ... um ... " His head began to loll, but he squared his shoulders and sat straighter.

"Nein, nein, I meant only that ... well, I think she is afraid of me, although I have done nothing to harm her."

"Aaaaah," Charles said. "Yes, I have noticed a hhhhesitancy about her in trrrraining sessions when yyyou are present. I shall try to talk with hhhher. At a mmmore convenient time of course."

"Oh, Danke, Herr Professor! I do not wish to make a bad impression." He stood and returned to the makeshift sick bay, helping out as needed, part of his mind on the puzzle of where the cook could have gone, and part of him wondering how to approach the young Pryde without eliciting a look of panic.

* * *

The latest unconscious form was stashed in Piotr's closet, and an artists' smock draped across the mirror, by the time soft footfalls announced the next joker looking for easy prey. He leaned past the doorframe, peered into the shadows. As planned, he mistook the portrait of Kitty for a real person; his hesitation gave Elise time to shoot a rubber band into his eye. Surprised by the sting, he fell back, clutching his face as his weapon dropped into the darkened bedroom.

Hot on his heels came another satin-clad fellow, who swiveled from side to side brandishing a sleek gun. A vibrant red dot zeroed in on the left side of the smock. A red ray lashed out, then doubled back, ricocheted by the silver of the mirror. Smarty-Pants ducked, but behind him ol' Fancy-Pants rose to confront whomever had smacked him. The laser beam sizzled through his scalp as intense pain doubled him over again. Blood coursed from the wound. His pal pivoted to peruse the damage, and once again the cook of all trades dashed out of her safe place to clobber them both with the gun that Fancy-Pants had dropped.

"Barely squeaked by this time," she muttered to herself as she dragged the first guy to the walk-in closet with his companions. "Hope my luck holds out until that German figures out where to find me." She stuffed the slumped fellow under a row of giant-sized suit jackets and retraced her steps to collect the second victim. "Although at this point, I'm not too picky about who's currently assigned to get me outta this mess."

[To Be Continued ... ]


	8. Handy With Tools

Elise reviewed her options for escape, seeing as how the X-people were taking their own sweet time about rescuing her. She couldn't fault The Incredible Nightcrawler; after all, he didn't know the layout of the mansion as well as any of the others, and it could be quite a confusing trek from one wing to another, not to mention more secret passages than a Disney haunted house and a subterranean complex unmatched in H. G. Wells's most far-flung fantasies. Sneaky noises continued to emanate from the direction of the blue wall-crawler's room, so fleeing down the grand staircase on the far side of his chambers was out for now.

Although the bureau in Piotr's room was of formidable size, she did for a moment consider looking for a means of leverage, but, to be realistic, the tunnel from her current hideout was as inaccessible as if it had been hidden behind a mountain.

That left the stairwell at the east end of this hallway; if she couldn't figure out which way was safest to go, up or down, she might camp out there. From the day's experience with these new intruders, she supposed none of them would be bright enough to find the hidden emergency exits, let alone scope them out to see where they led. And if they were too nosey, the trap door to the Freak Dimension on what she thought of as the third-and-a-half floor landing might trap them for a while. She'd have to keep her wits about her and remember it was the only brass door knob in that stairwell; the stainless steel ones all led to actual hallways in the mansion proper.

The cook steeled herself to make a dash from the room of the man of organic steel to the steel door near the end of the hall.

Kurt crouched beside a wounded trespasser. The young man shook with fear, a reaction familiar to the mutant. He used his softest, friendliest voice, pouring on the charm the way he used to do while mingling with cruise patrons after his act.

"There is nothing to fear, you know. You will be turned over to the authorities, but we will not turn you into a toad or anything. Heh heh," he chortled, trying to prompt laughter in the frightened fugitive. "If we had sinister plans for you," eyebrows waggled to elicit a grin from his patient, "why would we patch up your lacerations, eh?"

"Y-you don't look like no doctor I've ever seen," the kid stuttered.

"I am not a Doktor, but I have been trained as a medic. One need not look harmless to be harmless, you know."

Apparently his forthrightness began to win over the punk, whose arm grew less tense. The boy narrowed his eyes and said, "Didn't it cause trouble having, uh, somebody like you in an EMT class? Or was you in the army?"

This time, Kurt's chuckle was genuine. "Nein, the good monks in my homeland saw to it that I received education in many practical areas."

"Monks? You grow up in an orphanage or something?"

A swell of homesickness flushed through the blue mutant, chased by a wave of regret-laced sorrow. He swallowed hard before responding, "I spent some wonderful years in a Benedictine monastery, back in Bavaria. That is the same area where Pope Benedict grew up," he added with a hint of pride. "As you can imagine," he continued, placing the items in his medic kit now that the immediate job was done, "it was hard for someone like me to make a living in the ordinary way. and so I spent several years in the good brothers' care before I … left to find my place in the world."_I still have not found it, _he thought, _but perhaps this shiny new beginning will lead me in the path Gott has chosen. Und perhaps one day, into the arms of the charming cook?_ The patient looked to be barely out of his teens himself, and Kurt felt led to give him a morsel of advice, patting him on the shoulder. "You would do well to find better mentors than whomever sent you on this mission of hatred. Life is much too short to spend making others miserable."

The youth crossed his arms and hunched over. "Youse ain't gonna get me to spill who sent us, mutie freak. Fer a minute I fergot the mission, but you can't make me talk. Who sent me is nunya."

So much rejection, from friend and foe alike. Ah, well, one must carry on, Kurt told himself, as he carried his kit to the next person in need of minor medical care, this time one of the Institute students.

As Elise prepared to seek sanctuary in the stairwell, a brave young fellow sat on the top step of the landing to plot his glorious triumph. The fake grenade was broadcasting photos of some muties rounding up his comrades further down the corridor. He wished he knew who made the odd noises a bit closer to his station. No matter. Whoever tried to get away at this end of the hall would have to encounter him first, and he wasn't a dummy like the other dudes - no, he had brains and a plan. He wasn't sure what the plan was, but the chicks in charge would certainly tell him soon. Then the head terrorista would undoubtedly take notice of his brilliant performance and maybe let him clean her ultrasuede boots while they still encased her tantalizing calves.

Hesitation seized the cook as a conglomeration of concerns stewed in her head: how long would it take her to sprint to the stairwell; would she be dodging bullets or worse; and which of her armaments should she take? Some of the weapons might be handy in routing the tools that were attempting the takeover, but others might only weigh her down & reduce the chance of gaining the target area for escape. She'd always been handy with tools, improvising with whatever was at hand until something worked. In her Peace Corps days bringing clean water and sanitary facilities to remote regions, the crew often made do with whatever scraps the locals could find. This gift of easy mechanical inspiration served her well in the many mini-careers which followed, but never as well as when trapped in the X-mansion during an invasion.

Telling Scott or Professor X that the campus needed better security had always fallen on unwilling ears. They both felt that the presence of the X-Men was sufficient to counter any incursion. Hah. Would they never learn? But since the decisions weren't hers to make, she'd adapted to everything from street fighting techniques to employing beta versions of devices she'd suggested to people like Reed Richards or Tony Stark. In the current situation, she placed the flashlight on top of Piotr's massive bureau, aimed the bulb at the door, then crouched on the far side of the bureau and stuck a cartridge into the nail gun.

More scrabbling right outside the hallway. She mentally counted, "Five, four, three, two, one – yup, showtime," as an invader dived in the doorway, hollering something about letting blood flow to keep the bloodlines pure. "Hold it right there, pal," she said, flicking the flashlight so it shone in his eyes, "would it interest you to know that I'm not a mutant?"

The intruder blinked several times, then blindly fired his weapon in the vague vicinity of the voice. Elise observed it didn't do enough damage to provide her with a shot at safety.

"Okay. I tried to play nice with ya," she hefted the nail gun and held the safety guard, "but now I'm gonna have to give you the Acme Nail Gun Treatment." She squeezed the trigger, and three eight-penny nails flew into the floor near the bad boy's glitter deck shoes. He flinched and backed away; she moved the light so it shone again in his glazed eyes so she could go on the offensive. _Blit! Blit! Fyoo-fyoo-fyoo!_ The sound of nails embedding in the floor coaxed the youngster further away until he thudded against the wall. "Drop the gun and put your hands up or I'll aim this at your face," she snarled. Sounding fierce was not her forte, but she could invoke the stern sound she'd used growing up herding her younger brothers. The youth hesitated, bringing his puny pistol to hip height, and Elise let 'er rip again, this time slamming the nails into the wall a foot or so away from the tentative captive's head. The pistol fell to the floor and his arms went up in the air. "Please, don't hurt me. I just did it 'cause Tyrell did it. We was gonna go for tacos after."

"Right," Elise said, "that's a perfect excuse for disrupting a school, threatening innocent lives, and wreaking untold damage on a fine old residence. If I didn't think you'd be totally useless, I'd ask the judge to make you help me repair this place for your probation community service."

"Judge?" He squinted at her, blue eyes practically making question marks.

"We're not gonna let you delinquents waltz on outta here without turning you over to the authorities." At the fellow's movement, she splutted a few nails in an arc around his feet; he pressed closer to the wall. She continued in the vein sharpened by years of practice cowing her brothers. "I need to rejoin the people who run this place, _Kid_, and you are not going to stop me. I have more weapons in my overall pockets than you have brains to use 'em. Got it?"

"Don't know why women always have to order us around," he muttered.

"Maybe because you don't listen to the perfectly good advice we give you in the first place," she said, grinning.

Elise pointed with the nail gun. "You drop down ... good, now wriggle under that bed like a harmless little worm." She saw his eyes cut over her shoulder and widen. _One of the oldest tricks in the book_, she snorted to herself,_ He wants to draw your attention behind just long enough to spring_. She sidled toward the hallway, keeping the bed in view. As she came close to breaching the threshold, another bozo, who had escaped from the closet while she concentrated on Sparkly-Sneakers, lunged at her from behind. She twirled, drew a breath, and squeezed a warning shot past his ear; he ducked and collapsed. Again with the ice-cold authoritative voice, "Get up. Slowly. Hands where I can see them. Head to your time-out closet, Sonny. If I see you move my way again, you'll be on crutches or worse for a long, long time."

She held his gaze as he backed toward the makeshift prison. "You do not wanna mess with me. I've defended myself in hand-to-hand fighting, and once I cut off a guy's finger with my machete." He shrink further back, as if the wall could suck him into a secure embrace. She risked a moment of inattention to snarl at the boy cowering under Colossus's bed, "Don't make me do something you'll regret."

Once the would-be surprise attacker was stowed in the closet, she shot a few nails at an angle through the frame as a temporary seal. She left the nail gun on top of the bureau, retrieved her flashlight, and fished in her pocket for the X-comm. Might as well chance being overheard; after all, it seemed the world was beating a path to her hide-out anyway. She fiddled with the frequencies, flipping from one setting to the next. "Cyke? Storm? Beast? Helloooo?" Figuring the signal must be jammed, she kept it on Cyclops's channel in case it opened up during her planned run for the end of the hall. Elise tucked the X-comm in her bib pen pocket and checked the cylinder in a confiscated revolver.

A brief look out in the hallway assured her that all was temporarily clear. She fired a shot at a clay bust of Daffy Duck Piotr kept as a doorstop, then addressed the youngster under the bed. "You follow me, same result. Get it?"

"No worries. At least under here I won't get kicked around anymore," came the reply.

"Stay out of trouble," she said, then closed the door and dashed to the stairwell, jerking that door open to come face to face with another brightly-clothed jerk.


	9. Wrapping Up And Winding Down

[German phrase: Guten abend = Good evening]

Ororo approached Kurt, putting her hand on his arm. "You are showing signs of weariness," she said, blue eyes shimmering with kindness. "It is no longer necessary to push yourself so hard. I have recently completed a circuit of the grounds, and can assure you that this battle is all but over. Come, rest a while." She guided him to a chair, took his medic kit, and gave him a light push on his shoulders until he sank into the chair. "I will send a glass of water, to replenish your strength."

Kurt thought a beer sounded more refreshing, but refrained from refuting her suggestion. Instead, he nodded, smiled, and said, "Danke."

Ororo returned his smile and walked off; he enjoyed watching the graceful way she moved. So unlike - "The cook!" he yelped. Rogue rushed to his side, eyes wide in alarm. "What's wrong?"

"I was assigned to go save the cook, but events have gotten out of hand, und I have no idea where to find her. She was in my room, but when I went back to search, she had disappeared."

"Kitty 'n' I cleared them scalawags outta your room a while ago." She gave him a gentle punch in the biceps. "You're a pretty good fighter, if you took that whole bunch down all by your lonesome."

"Ach, one does what one must." He fixed a worried golden gaze on her. "But you saw no sign of her?"

"Not a trace. Wonder where she coulda got to? Ain't like her to play hide'n'seek when there's a genuine invasion."

Bobby Drake appeared behind Rogue. "Absolutely. She knows her limits as a sapiens, so if there's danger, she should leave the heroics to us."

Rogue crossed her arms over her ample chest, pursing her lips at Bobby before saying, "Except the time she pulled your raggedy ol' ass outta the sauna."

Kurt tried not to giggle at the youth's futile effort to appear manly as Bobby, arms akimbo, puffed out his chest. "What she doesn't know about The Invincible Ice Man is that I could have gone to vapor and re-formed outside."

"Some o' us wish you'd go ahead and reform," Rogue smirked. "'Sides, she knew the Brotherhood had jammed up the locks and slapped insulation around the doorframe so you COULDN'T slip on outta there in a fog." She addressed Kurt, "He kinda stays in a fog, if ya know what I mean."

"I don't have to put up with this disrespect," Bobby pouted, "just wanted to warn Kurt about how Elise tends to be bossy." He leaned closer to the new mutant. "Get your bluff in on her early, or she'll push you around." With a wink, he was off, bare feet skating on ice that materialized in front of him, shot from his outstretched palms. Rogue grunted as she watched him retreat, "Mr. know-it-all an' a show-off to boot." Her gloved hand patted Kurt's. "Leez ain't so bad, long's you don't try an' tell her what to do. Shoot, even the Perfesser had to figure out how to handle her. I think there's prob'ly only five people in this world who do cow her. Ever'body else kowtows TO her." She smiled at her own pun.

"Who, might I ask, are the five whom she fears?"

"Oh, I kinda doubt she fears anybody. But she respects the Perfessor and o' course jus' looooves Captain America-"

"Who doesn't?" Kurt agreed.

"An' she has what I'd call a healthy respect for Magneto & Dr. Doom."

"A formidable quartet," Kurt murmured. "Und who is the fifth?"

Rogue grinned, then said, "Would ya believe it's her own Daddy?"

"Ah," Kurt said, fear tinging his expression, "he is stern? Severe? Dangerous?"

"Why heavens no! He's as much of a pushover as ol' Hank."

"Then why did you say―"

"I mean that Perfessor Stringfellow is one of the few folks that can make her sit up an' pay attention." She pulled a couple bottles of water from an ice bucket which was floating by on an Ororo-generated breeze, and handed one to Kurt. "If you stick aroun' here at all, you'll see." After unscrewing the lid and downing several long gulps, she asked the new X-man, "Do ya think ya might wanna stay? I mean, after today's excitement an' all?"

Kurt lifted his bottle in a toast. "I already feel right at home." Deep in his psyche, two thoughts warred: one, that he very well could call this haven his home; the other, that he may never fit in anywhere, no matter how benevolent the patron or how delicious the cuisine.

* * *

Elise, having plowed through the stairwell door, felt it slam behind her as she stumbled away from the boy in the paisley shirt. Two thoughts warred in the back of her mind: one, that she couldn't allow this idiot to jeopardize the peace of the one place in which she felt she almost belonged; the other, that she, being a flatscan, would never really belong, no matter how clever her improvised means of defense or how much the residents appreciated her cuisine.

The paisley punk lunged at her; she didn't want to shoot him point-blank, so tried to crack him one on the noggin with the pistol handle. The gun squirted from her sweaty hands; momentum propelled it in an arc until it clattered down the stairwell. The attacker had pushed the back of her knees, forcing her to tumble on her side; her right hand grabbed his hair and pulled until he screeched, then forced his head down further so that it wouldn't impede her next move. With practice borne of years of sisterly experience, her left hand reached under the beltless hot pink trousers and yanked tight the waist of his briefs. She rolled to her knees as her left fist dug into his back to force him to the floor. "Behold the Wedgie of Dooooom!" she shouted, pleased by the authoritative echoes which fired off the walls of the stairwell.

"Huh-uhn," the boy said, "You couldn't ever do that to the man in the tin suit."

Elise rolled her eyes. "How about," and again made her voice boom like a sports announcer's, "The Wedgie Of Your Ultimate Faaailurrre!"

"You're hurting me," the fellow whined, wriggling against the smooth concrete. She let go of his hair; he turned a bit in an attempt to glare at her and said, "And you'll be sorry when They find out."

Rather than risk selecting the knife in her shin sheath, which might be used against her, she could probably scare the lad with a bit of misdirection. The cook straddled the boy's back, keeping her death grip on the underwear with one hand as her free hand rummaged in the bib of her overalls, then placed a 6" metal cylinder against the kid's neck. "Who are They and how will They find out that you're totally busted?"

"Like I'm gonna spill my guts to the likes of you," he grumbled.

"What your guts do is dependent on how close to your head I hold this death ray," she replied, putting a tad more force behind the X-comm digging into his skin. "Now, how about if you tell me what technology They used to circumvent the mansion defenses?"

With a choked chortle, he said, "Maybe it short-circuited your weapon there, Princess." The wedgied one started to rise, but his indignant captor and rasped, "You've got to ask yourself one question: Do I feel lucky?" She poked the cylinder between his eyebrows. "Well, do ya, _punk_?" [3]

She felt his back tense, saw him lick his lips over & over. In a conversational tone, she put the original questions to him again. "Who is it that wants us dead so badly, and how do They benefit from it?"

Due no doubt to nervousness, his reply sounded like he was about 14, voice galloping up and down the scale. "I'm on retainer to the Brilliant International Terrorist Chicks Helping Eradicate Superhumans." Elise instinctively anagrammed the words and gave a greasy grin as the boy continued, "They wanted to prove that even men could foil a bunch of mutie freaks. They said that being born beautiful beats brackishness [4], and big brains belie being a bimbo."

The wedgie expert replied, "Stands to reason they'd teach you such a rallying cry, and please don't even vaguely refer to how they pay you morons to do their dirty work. Just FYI," she continued, "this death ray is engineered - by a woman, no less - to respond to the slightest touch. I can even operate it with my tongue. So no stupid tricks." The vigorous nod of his head, red from shame and effort, assured her it was ok to put the communication device between her teeth as she pulled an extra-large Spidey bandana from her back pocket and looped it between the right & left leg holes of his Family Guy briefs before tugging two ends of the bandana up as a substitute rope; Stewie nudged cheek-to-cheek with Brian. It was a simple matter to turn loose of the waistband at this point and quickly tie his wrists together. She straightened up, wiped a modicum of spit off the X-comm, and dialed Scott's frequency.

"Hey, Scotty, I have one ready for pickup."

"You lied to me!" the boy squealed.

"And gave you the wedgie of your life. So sue me."

"Use code names when under attack," Cyclops' voice had never been so welcome, "and report location and status."

"Sorry. Anyway, Cyke-o, I have a little guy here in the stairwell near Colossus' room."

"Don't take any unnecessary risks. We have the majority of hostiles contained, so I can afford to send Colossus up there momentarily."

"I'm fine by the way, not much worse for wear and tear. In case you wondered."

"I assumed, since you were able to use Nightcrawler's x-comm, that you were in good shape."

"I think they did something with the new guy. The German."

"Nightcrawler is fine; he's tending to some of the wounded."

"How did he―"

Scott's voice never rose, just plowed on. "You can catch up with him during cleanup."

"Okily-dokily. We'll sit tight til Sweety-Petey comes to collect the bad guys." And, she added mentally, assess the damage caused by his inconvenient placement of furniture.

"Cyclops out."

"Toodle-oodle, Mr. Head Noodle."

* * *

After Colossus escorted her to the parlor where Nightcrawler had brought the Nullifier before being sent to look for her, Elise gave a brief report of her defensive actions.

Scott, making notes on his tablet, said without looking up, "On the whole, I'd say you did a good job of fending off the invaders. No less than I'd expect from you."

So ... he hadn't neglected her; it was his sign of respect, belief that she could fend for herself in a pinch. But best not to let him assume that she would always be up to any new threat, since there seemed to be an ever-increasing parade of enhanced individuals bent on taking sapiens as hostages. "You make me blush with your overwhelming praise, O Ruby-goggled General."

Cyclops pressed his lips in a thin line, breathed deeply - about as long as it would take, say, to count to ten. "I've assigned you and Nightcrawler cleanup of these areas."

Her phone buzzed; she scrolled over the floorplan and noted which areas of the downstairs were in blue, which per the designations below the diagram were for "NC & Cook." Elise sent a mild smile his way. "And of course the kitchen area."

Scott nodded, tapped the tablet again, and a new chart popped up on the cook's phone, with modified instructions.

"So, am I dismissed? And can you have Mindbender or Prof-X tell the noob to meet me in the lacey green parlor? That's a lotta cleanup for two people."

"Certainly. Tomorrow morning, of course, it'll be GYOB."

"Gotcha. Love that Grab Your Own Breakfast."

* * *

In the parlor which featured pale green walls and lace table runners, Kurt bounced up to Elise and tried to apologize for disappearing in the thick of battle.

"I can hold my own, Herr Wagner. This isn't the first time security has been breached."

"Colossus told me of men trapped in his room, how you managed to escape without being harmed. He did not tell me who came to your aid."

"The trio called Me, Myself, & I," she snickered.

"But - are you such a good shot?"

"Let's put it this way – when push came to shove, I nailed them."

* * *

It was late in the night, closer to early in the morning, before the pair finished tending to the restoration of order in their assigned rooms. Finally Elise could oversee the stuffing of Kurt with what she called a "little midnight snack" in the breakfast nook of the Institute kitchen. She pushed yet another platter of goodies toward him, waving her hand to suggest he indulge.

"You are one tough cookie, Herr Wagner. Is there some form of circus art that specializes in combat skills?"

His grin was rueful, and appeared painful too, with that swollen lip, but she couldn't supress a smirk at the cappuccino moustache contrasting with the indigo lips, like a cloud in a night sky. "When one looks a little different, strangers often take it as a challenge to beat one up. I had to learn street fighting before I could master other forms of defense."

"Wow. Couldn't you just do that disappearing thing instead?"

A half smile began his answer. "Before I developed that talent, my older brother, Stephan, insisted that I learn to defend myself. He said he would not always be around to rescue me." Gloom shadowed his dark features as he whispered, "He was right, of course."

Waves of silence lapped at the shores of their companionship.

"Forgive me," he said afer a few moments. "I was ... back in the past."

"Nice place to visit, but you wouldn't want to live there," Elise commented. She stretched, massaging the hand that had weilded the Hilti nail gun. "I like the present just fine. Always something new."

"Especially around here?"

She chortled. "Yeah."

"Are you not afraid of being hurt, associated with these ... mutants?"

"I've fought off robbers in Kenya and drug dealers in New York City and drunken rednecks in Kentucky. Nothing much here can phase me. Not counting Kitty, hahaha. At least, nothing so far."

"You are a remarkable woman, I think, Miss Stringfellow."

"Nah. And it's Elise. I'm just a little on the weird side. Which is probably why the Prof hired me." She patted his three-fingered hand. "I really hope you don't have to fight such prejudice the rest of your life. But chances are you will." Elise stood and gathered the empty cups. "Care for another?"

"Nein, danke. I should get some sleep."

"Me too, Bucko. This has been a busy evening and shot my plans all to heck. Want a ride to Mass tomorrow?"

"Would your community welcome someone like me?"

"Yeah, they can be a little stuffy sometimes, but they're good people." The cups clinked going into the dishwasher. "Haven't excommunicated me for wearing a beret instead of a mantilla."

"But you cover your head as sign of respect for Gott."

Elise returned to his side. "Sure. That's Scriptural. But I'm not the kind of person who wears lacy headgear - or a dress."

"You would look beautiful in one."

She slanted in, causing him to retreat by bending backwards. "Don't. Go. There." Wagged her finger right in his face. "Ev-er. Got it?"

"Um, ja. It has been a stressful day und I forgot myself."

Straightening up, she favored him with a smile. "No harm done. And after Mass I'll fix you an omelet the likes of which you've never seen in all your travels."

He stood and bowed. "I shall be grateful. "

"Herr Wagner " she fidgeted with her dish towel, wrapping and unwrapping it around her long, blunt-edged fingers, "thanks for saving my skin. I owe ya more than an omelet."

"The pleasure was mine."

"Later, then." The cook grabbed a broom.

"Guten Abend." Off he loped on all fours.

How cute, thought Elise as she returned to her work.

* * *

[footnote 3: If this doesn't ring a bell, check out famous quotes from a movie called "Dirty Harry."]

[footnote 4: Yes, folks, I had to restort to the Merriam-Webster thesaurus for that one.]

[A/N: **Please vote in the poll on my Profile page** as to where I should take up the story next. My version of Kurt's origins & backstory draws a bit from the many versions - comic books, movies, animated series, novels, etc. - of this wonderful character, but has some elements that no one else (to my knowledge) has blended in. If you enjoyed "Unguarded" so far, **please set it to Story Alert** so you will know when the next part comes rolling out.]


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